


Porn!Verse Shorts

by foxcatcher



Series: International Purveyors of Pornography [5]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Adult Entertainment, If WWE did porn instead of wrestling, Implied Tax Fraud, Lots of Reminiscing About The Past, M/M, Meta, Ric Flair Being Ric Flair, porn cliches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 21:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11837361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxcatcher/pseuds/foxcatcher
Summary: All kinds of bits and ideas and drabbles that never turned into full fics. Some set in WWE's mottled past, other in the present.Ratings might change in future chapters. Tags updated.





	Porn!Verse Shorts

**Author's Note:**

> I love porn cliches and 70s sleaze too much to let this opportunity for a retrospect slip. Although it turned out stranger and more melancholic than I thought it would.

Irwin had known the man was going to be trouble the moment he’d walked through the door.

No good could come of an appointment after 7 pm, and even less good could come from a man with dollar signs on his lapels. But an appointment was an appointment, regardless of the strange hour, so Irwin put on his most professional demeanour and offered the man the only other seat in the room. The drab greyness of it seemed to suck the very life out of you, but Irwin had stopped being bothered by it a long time ago. He didn’t even notice the clutter anymore – his daily trudge had carved a path between the mounds of books and binders stacked haphazardly everywhere, forming a narrow mountain pass from the threshold to the filing cabinet to the desk.

The building was eerily silent, save for the hum of the light tube in the ceiling and the steady whirr of a rickety fan in the corner. Irwin had sent the secretaries home early. They’d barely been able to contain their glee at escaping another of his all-nighters and disappeared quickly after making him a weak cup of coffee and checking that he hadn’t finally been crushed by one of the paperwork mountains. He didn’t blame them. Irwin knew better than anyone that he was a terrible grump, prone to scowling and barking orders when work became too much. It wasn’t something he particularly liked, but an unavoidable side effect of taking his job very seriously, and that job being as tense as it was dull – one errant number and it might all crumble beneath him. Sometimes, on late nights like this, he could feel a surge in the pit of his stomach, like he was on the verge of falling. He’d stopped pretending he didn’t sleep in his office more often than not.

His guest, however, seemed unfazed by the borderline squalor, and had propped his feet up on Irwin’s desk, lighting a cigar with a smug grin that said he didn’t give one singular shit whether he was allowed to or not. Irwin could only frown back.

“So, Mr. DiBiase,” Irwin started, squinting at the man through the thick smoke. It was making his eyes water something terrible, but he’d be fucked if he was going to let the other know that. “What may I help you with?”

“I’m glad you asked, Irwin – if I may call you that?”

There was that grin again. Irwin gave him a blank look that just seemed to amuse him. He was an odd one, coming to a tax office at this hour, reeking of money and less-than-honourable intentions, yet he’d made no attempt at concealing his identity. Instead, he seemed to revel in his appearance, his cartoonish richness. This could be bad, Irwin thought. Either he had nothing to hide, or nothing to fear.

“It’s a matter of a somewhat… delicate nature,” the man continued. He lowered his tone theatrically as he launched into what was clearly a prepared speech, full of careful euphemisms and elegant phrases, twists and turns that rattled around in Irwin’s brain without making much sense.

He didn’t understand. It was as if the words wouldn’t settle in his mind, like they had been reduced to mere sounds. Every time he thought he knew what the man was asking of him, his brain seemed to reject the thought instinctively. But as his guest spoke, never taking his eyes off Irwin, the core of the request begun to emerge from the deliberate fog that surrounded it, until it stood before him, clear and unquestionable. When DiBiase had finished, he leant back with a pleased glint in his eye, giving the other some time for everything to sink in.

Irwin swallowed. The room seemed to have gone cold all of a sudden. He had to force his face to remain neutral as he replied.

“Mr. DiBiase, what you are asking of me is fraud,” he said slowly, dark eyes peering over the rim of his glasses. “I could go to prison if anyone found out about this.”

The other man laughed – a strange, cackling sound that ricocheted between the walls of the narrow room.

“Don’t think of it as fraud, Irwin,” he replied, waving an arm nonchalantly and flashing a large gold watch in the process. “Think of it as… an exercise. Creative sums, maybe. Whatever makes you feel better.” As he spoke, he hooked his thumbs on the lapels of his jacket, with the air of someone who had never encountered a problem he couldn’t buy his way out of. Irwin bristled at the tone – part of him wanted to get angry with the man and his unflappable sureness, at the pure gall he had to come to his office and assume that he would go along with his plans.

But no anger came.

There was a hiss – DiBiase had stubbed out his cigar on a sliver of the desk not covered with paper. Irwin’s eyes were drawn to the embers glowing against the wooden surface. They twinkled, threatening to cast sparks. His mouth felt dry. It could all burn down. Would it be so bad if it did?

“Your reputation precedes you, you know,” the man continued, “I wouldn’t have come to anyone but the best. And I’d make sure it was worth your while.” He bore his eyes into Irwin’s.

“Everyone has a price, Irwin. Even you.”

Irwin didn’t know what to say. He felt pinned to the chair under the man’s unwavering stare. The words were ringing in his ears – while the man hadn’t said anything too suggestive, there was a dark tint to them, something coiled in his posture, that made it very clear what he could do for him. Almost woozy, Irwin opened his mouth and when nothing came out, he sprung out of his chair, nearly knocking it over.

“It’s… It’s very hot in here,” the dark-haired man said unsteadily, tugging at the knot on his tie. “Do you mind if I open the window?”

“I’ve got something you can open,” the other replied, pushing away from the desk and spreading his legs invitingly. He was still staring Irwin directly in the eyes, waiting. The red glint of the cigar had all but disappeared, but thick tendrils of smoke were still rising around them. 

Something wasn’t right.

“WOOO!”

The cry seemed to cut clean through the smoke, from one corner of the room to the other. In an instant, they were descended upon by the crew, moving props, checking the lighting, touching up their makeup.

“Jesus Christ, Ric. Just say ‘cut’ like everybody else.”

“Whatever. Could someone fix that smoke machine? And your line is ‘Why don’t I cool you down, sweetcheeks?’”

“That doesn’t even make any sense…” Ted muttered, flicking specks of ash off his trousers while an assistant tinkered with his already immaculate hair. “Can’t I just bend him over the desk already? We’ve been here for hours, just _talking_.”

Irwin looked around the room as Ted and Ric bickered, feeling a little dazed. The carpenters had really outdone themselves this time – it was a near-perfect copy of his old office. People always said to never bring your past into the business, but when Ric had told him the theme for his next shoot and asked if he could be a consultant to, in his words, “make sure it made some kind of goddamn sense”, he hadn’t really felt like he could refuse. Even if the result made him feel a little conflicted.

It was almost too real. His body had known automatically what path to take when he’d stepped through the doors, where to wind through the clutter. At one point, he’d caught himself listening for the secretaries next door, knowing full well that there was nothing behind it.

“We’re buildin’ suspense, baby!” Ric shouted at Ted from his director’s chair. He was wearing sunglasses indoors. “People like to be teased before the action, they like to feel like they’re getting a reward for waiting. And we have to fill three hours with something.”

“I can fill that plenty, if you know what I mean…” Ted leered, winking at Irwin, who suddenly felt very warm. He cleared his throat, partially to hide his face and partially to stop Ric from joining in. He’d had that look on his face.

“Uh, Mr. Flair?” - _‘Mr. Flair?’_ Ted mouthed at Irwin from across the desk – “I think it’s broken.” The stage hand, some flannel-clad kid barely out of high school, was crouched next to the smoke machine, prodding it gently with a wrench. The machine croaked sadly and belched out another gust of smoke.

“Alright,” Ric said loudly, robe billowing around him as he got up. “Taping postponed, ladies. We’ll do the rest tomorrow. The Nature Boy’s got a date anyway.”

Ted and Irwin watched him strut off, his voice echoing through the great dome of the main hall. The crew had already begun packing – slowly, what had seemed so real was transformed into an open-sided set, barely more than three walls in the middle of a dimly-lit hangar. Irwin stood cross-armed by the window, looking out at the floor on the other side. There had used to be a street light right outside his old one. In the winter, he’d watched the snowflakes fall slowly beneath it. Now, all he could see was a swirling mess of wires and cables.

“You alright?” Ted asked as he shrugged off his spangly jacket and handed it to an assistant with a disgusted look. “I hope the shoot isn’t too close to home. You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“I’m fine,” Irwin replied, still facing the window. “It’s just strange to be back here.”

There was a pause, a rustle as Ted got out of his chair and joined Irwin at the window, letting his warm palm rest in the dip of his lower back. They stood silently together for a second, looking out at nothing.

“Do you ever miss it?”

“God, no! I’d be mad to,” Irwin said with a laugh. He could feel Ted’s shirt rub against his as the other man undid his bowtie one-handed. “It’s just…” He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. He wasn’t sure he even knew what he wanted to say. But Ted would understand.

“I know what you mean, Irwin.” He put his arm around him, squeezing a little. His smile was broad and warm – nothing like the cocky grin he’d worn during the shoot.

“So, _sweetcheeks_ ,” Ted started, leading them away from the window. “Seeing as we have the whole evening off, why don’t you let me buy you a drink?”

Irwin just smiled back. Like he had to ask. 

"Careful, _Mr. DiBiase_. You'll cost me my job one of these days."

Together, they wound through the set, their bodies knowing exactly where to turn. 


End file.
